Gregory David Roberts - Shantaram

"How many, all together?" Salman demanded.

"Chuha and his buddies," Amir answered in his lazy drawl. I think the slow, softly slurring style of the man gave everyone there new heart: he wasn't, or didn't seem to be, anywhere near as nervous as the rest of us. "That makes six. One of them, Manu, is a good man. You know him. He put the Harshan brothers down, all three of them, on his own. His cousin Bichchu is also a good fighter-they don't call him the Scorpion for nothing. The rest of them, including Chuha, that madachudh, are not much. Then there's the Sapnas. That makes three more. And from Iran, two more. That's eleven. Maybe one or two more, at the most. Hussein is watching the place. He'll tell us if any more arrived."

"Eleven," Salman murmured, avoiding the eyes of the men while he considered the situation. "And we are... eleven-twelve, counting Little Tony. But we have to lose two, on the street outside Chuha's house-one on each side, to slow up the cops if they come screaming on us while we're inside. I'll make a call before we go in, to keep the cops away, but we need to be sure.

Chuha might have more guys coming, as well, so we need at least two on the outside. I don't mind fighting my way in there, but I don't want to fight my way out again if I don't have to. Hussein is already there. Faisal, you're the number two on the street outside, okay? Nobody goes in, or out, but us."

"No problem," the young fighter agreed.

"Check the guns, now, with Raj. Get them ready."

"I'm on it," he said, collecting guns from a few of the men and then jogging over to the cars, where Raj and Mahmoud waited.

"And two will have to go back to Khader's house with Tariq,"

Salman continued.

"It was Nazeer's idea to bring him with us," Andrew put in. "He didn't want to leave him behind there when Faisal and Amir came to give us the news. I told him not to bring the kid, but you know how Nazeer is when he gets an idea in his head."

"Nazeer can take the boy to Sobhan Mahmoud's house in Versova, and watch over him," Salman declared. "And you'll go with him."

"Oh, come on, man!" Andrew complained. "Why do I have to do that?

Why do I have to miss all the action?"

"I need two men to watch over old Sobhan and the boy. Especially the boy-Nazeer was right not to leave him. Tariq is a target. As long as he's alive, the council is still Khader's council. If they kill him, Chuha will take a lot of power from it. The same goes for old Sobhan. Take the boy out of the city, and keep him and Sobhan Mahmoud safe."

"But why do I have to miss the action, man? Why does it have to be me? Send someone else, Salman. Let me go with you to Chuha's."

"Are you going to argue with me?" Salman said, his lip curling with anger.

"No, man," Andrew snarled petulantly. "I'll do it. I'll take the kid."

"That leaves eight of us," Salman concluded. "Sanjay and me, Abdullah and Amir, Raj and little Tony, Farid and Mahmoud-"

"Nine," I cut in. "There's nine of us."

"You should take off, Lin," Salman said quietly, raising his eyes to meet mine. "I was just now going to ask you to take a cab and pass the word to Rajubhai, and the boys at your passport shop."

"I'm not leaving Abdullah," I said flatly.

"Maybe you can go back with Nazeer," Amir, who was Andrew's close friend, suggested.

"I left Abdullah once," I declared. "I'm not doing it again. It's like fate or something. I've got a feeling, Salman. I've got a feeling not to leave Abdullah. I'm in it. I'm not leaving Mahmoud Melbaaf, either. I'm with them. I'm with you."

Salman held the stare, frowning pensively. It occurred to me, stupidly, that his slightly crooked face-one eye a little lower than the other, his nose bent from a bad break, his mouth scarred in the corner-found a handsome symmetry only then, when the burden of his thoughts creased his features into a determined frown.

"Okay." he agreed, at last.

"What the fuck!" Andrew exploded. "He gets to go, but I do the baby-sitting job?"

"Settle down, Andrew," Farid said soothingly.

"No, fuck him! I'm sick of this fuckin' gora, man. So Khader liked him, so he went to Afghanistan, so fuckin' what? Khader's dead, yaar. Khader's day is gone."

"Relax, man," Amir put in.

"What relax? Fuck Khader, and fuck his gora, too!"

"You should watch your mouth," I muttered through clenched teeth.

"I should?" he asked, thrusting his face forward pugnaciously.

"Well, fuck your sister! How's my mouth now? You like that?"

"I don't have a sister," I said evenly in Hindi. A few men laughed.

"Well, maybe I'll go fuck your mother," he snarled, "and make you a new sister!"

"That's good enough," I growled, shaping up to fight him. "Get 'em up! Get your fuckin' hands up! Let's go!"

It would've been messy. I wasn't a good fighter, but I knew the moves. I could hit hard. And if I got into real trouble in those years, I wasn't afraid to put the wet end of a knife into another man's body. Andrew was capa- ble. With a gun in his hand, he was deadly. As Amir moved around to support him, directly behind his right shoulder, Abdullah took up a similar position beside me. A fight would become a brawl. We all knew it. But the young Goan didn't raise his hands, and as one second became five, and ten, and fifteen, it seemed that he wasn't as willing with his fists as he was with his mouth.

Nazeer broke the stand-off. Pushing between us, he seized Andrew by the wrist and a scruff of shirtsleeve. I knew that grip well.

I knew that Andrew had to kill the burly Afghan if he wanted to break it. Nazeer paused only long enough to give me a bewilderingly cryptic look, part censure and part pride, part anger and part red-eyed affection, before he shoved the young Goan backwards through the circle of men. At the car, he pushed Andrew into the driver's seat and then climbed into the back with Tariq. Andrew started the car and sped away, spitting gravel and dust as he wheeled around and headed back toward Marine Drive. As the car swept past me I saw Tariq's face at the window. It was pale, with only the eyes, like wild paw prints in snow, betraying any hint of the mind or the mood within.

"_Mai _jata _hu," I repeated when the car had passed. I'm going.

Everyone laughed. I wasn't sure if it was at the vehemence of my tone or the blunt simplicity of the Hindi phrase.

"I think we got that, Lin," Salman said. "I think that's very clear, na? Okay, I'll put you with Abdullah, out the back.

There's a lane behind Chuha's house-Abdullah, you know it. It has two feeds from other lanes, one into the main street, and one around the corner to other houses in the block. At the back of Chuha's house there's a yard. I've seen it. There are two windows, both with heavy bars, and only one door to the house.

It's down two steps. You two hold that place. Nobody goes in when we start. If we do right, some of them will try to make a run for it out there. Don't let them get past you. Stop them right there, in the yard. The rest of us will go in through the front. What about the guns, Faisal?"

"Seven," he answered. "Two short shotgun, two automatic, three revolver."

"Give me one of the automatics," Salman ordered. "Abdullah, you take the other one. You'll have to share it, Lin. The shotguns are no good inside-it's gonna get very close in there, and we want to be real sure what we're shooting at. I want them on the street outside, for maximum coverage if we need it. Faisal, you take the shotguns, and give one to Hussein. When we're finished, we'll go out the back way, past Abdullah and Lin. We won't go out the front, so put holes in anything that tries to go in or out once we're in there. The three other guns are for Farid, Amir, and Mahmoud. Raj, you'll have to share with us. Okay?"

The men nodded, and wagged their heads in agreement.